


The Perpetual Process

by ignify



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, elementary s3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:44:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignify/pseuds/ignify
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The murder of a promising artist brings Sherlock Holmes, Joan Watson, and Kitty Winter to a cramped darkroom and a unique art gallery as they begin their pursuit of a killer as creative as their victim. As their investigation unfolds, so do conversations of respect, recovery, and ultimately, the bravery of what it means to endure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After Hours

**Author's Note:**

> After reading Adam Christopher's Elementary tie-in novel "The Ghost Line", I was inspired to finally start up the case fic I've been wanting to write for a long time.
> 
> A huge thank you to Elle (elyndis) for sticking with me and my increasing pile of unfinished pieces, for being a wonderful beta, and for being an extraordinary friend. And of course, to my lovely writing partners, without whom the final push to begin this story — and all the wonderful adventures I've had, and will have, stepping into Watson's shoes — would not have happened. I look forward to plotting more murder mysteries, and to sharing little moments with you always.

 

 

 

 

It was all about having connections. Coming here in the daytime was no problem, sure, although the campus crowds — not to mention having to wait your turn with the materials — was a factor he was more than willing to forgo. Besides, something about the building at this time of night just… _worked_ for him. All this space, the way his steps echoed in the arched hallways, the glorious view of the glowing city through the large windowpanes of the main lobby.

Dane Triggs tilts his head as he deposits a photo into the stop bath. This was going to be one hell of a photo — it could possibly even be _the_ photo he’ll end up using. The keys in his pocket feel like a blessing. Come to think of it, everything was starting to feel like a blessing lately. Landing the coveted centerpiece slot in the Queens creative community conference was just the start of what had to be his lucky strike. At last. It was about time!

And he really _was_ feeling better than usual. Whether the opportunities or the good mood came first, Dane doesn’t know; all he knows right now is that this showpiece _will_ be amazing, and that this joy had the potential to last. That sandwich over at the corner diner certainly helped. The meds, too.

The tiny darkroom is eerily quiet, exactly the way Dane likes it. While the main, spacious darkroom was just a few doors over in the photography wing, he preferred this one. Being a less popular venue, the spare darkroom was hardly found in a cluttered state. Compared to studio hours, he barely spent time in here anyway, so he might as well enjoy the privacy and intimacy of the neat, tight setting to the fullest extent.

Dane rocks the stop bath tray gently for a few seconds. He withdraws the image from the stop bath, and slides it into the fixer. While he waits, agitating the tray gently, he recounts the beauty of the landscapes settling into the papers before him. With his technique, the colors achieved here would provide references for his paintings that simple Google image searches could only _dream_ of.

A minute passes. Dane continues to shake the tray slowly. One more until he can stop, and then thirty more seconds until he can switch on the lights. Just as he’s about to begin the countdown, a muffled _ping!_ sounds from his pocket. He takes a step back and, careful not to disturb the line of hanging photos behind him, Dane pulls his phone out slowly, keeping his arm as close to his body as possible.

It was a notification from Twitter. One of his fellow — and favorite, oh, and _famous_  — artists had just sent him a direct message in response to their most recent thread.

 

_Hey man. I really liked your portfolio. Wanna do a show together?_

There’s also two empty boxes that follow the message. Emojis, probably. Can’t read those on this phone. But that doesn’t matter to him — here it was, the deal of his dreams, awaiting his simple gesture of approval.

The bright smile on Dane’s face could rival the red light revealing the darkroom interior. Nearly shaking with excitement, he begins to type out his response.

The drumming of his fingers against his screen stop when he hears slight shuffling on the other side of the darkroom wall. Someone else was here? At _this_ hour? When the three-day grading period was just about to start?

Who would be here on a Friday night?

Perhaps the janitor. Dane remembers passing by them on his way up here, at least. It had to be them.

And then he recalls — oh. Right. His things were just outside the darkroom. Lots of them, too. Practically carried half his entire inventory up here with him for the all-nighter he had planned. The janitor was probably wondering who left them there. He’d better go out and fetch them before they get dropped off at lost and found. He really wasn’t in the mood to walk all the way there, especially when it was so cold outside.

“Sorry about that,” Dane says loudly, deleting what he’d typed. He places his phone back into his pocket. “I’ll go get my things in a sec.”

Despite the earnest statement, the shuffling transitions to the sound of footsteps as the noise nears the curtained door. Dane squints in the dark. Maybe the janitor couldn’t hear him from all the way in here, tiny as the room was.

Against the dark entrance and with only the quiet, red light illuminating the place, Dane can just make out the figure of someone standing in the doorway.

“Oh, hey,” Dane greets, the weak wave of his hand unseen in the dark. “Yeah, the stuff in the room is mine. There’s no need to send them to lost and found, I’ll just go—”

His words are cut out — and almost literally so, as the figure before him comes forward, and shoves a knife right into his stomach. Dane gags at the sudden contact, the searing pain making his knees weak, yet he has little time to cry out again, as the knife rapidly plunges in and out of him twice, thrice, four times.

“Who—st—stop—”

Short syllables are all he can manage. His body is stabbed a fifth time.

Dane stumbles backwards, nearly toppling into one of the high cabinets behind him, but the anonymous figure’s hand is quicker, and catches him before his body can fall.

It is the sole act of mercy he’s shown before the stranger stabs him one more time for good measure, and slowly sets Dane’s body into the color developer bath.


	2. An Exercise in Memory

 

 

 

 

Kitty Winter tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s been — what, two hours now? Surely it was time for a break. She was starting to get a little hungry, and the thought of running over to the gyro place just a block away was getting more and more tempting by the minute. She tries to picture what the Tuesday special might be this time.

“So exactly _when_ is any of this supposed to start making sense?” Kitty asks from where she’s seated at the edge of the table. She shifts slightly, and her legs droop in one lazy swing.

The look she receives in return is enough of an answer for her, but of course, an exchange of narrowed eyes simply wouldn’t do for the other party. Not during something like this.

“It _will_ make sense, when you finally hone in on the key to this case, and can tell me which of these individuals are guilty,” Sherlock replies, angling himself away from Kitty, and towards the work at hand as he flips through a stack of papers in his grasp. “Or rather, it _should_ make sense by now.”

Ignoring the slight jab, Kitty turns back to the display mounted over the fireplace. Eight candid photographs depicting the city’s highest-earning CEOs of 2010 were lined up against one another, the subjects warranting two photos each. One woman, and three men, all photographed during the end of their morning commutes to their respective buildings. Three were photographed stepping out of a cab, while one CEO’s pictures showed him walking underneath the awning of a skyscraper’s entrance.

Several feet away, Kitty peers at the photographs from the red table they’ve scooted towards the fireplace. It isn’t long until she yields to the frustration, and decides to take yet another close look. She steps away from the table, and walks up to the fireplace, her arms folded, her tone slightly sour.

“It’s like I said...countless times already, mind you,” she begins. “I don’t understand how you expect me to point out the thief from these photographs alone.”

“You speak as if I’ve given you insufficient data.” Sherlock turns to face her now. He sets the case files atop a stack of books neighboring Angus on the fireplace mantel. “I’ve given you the privilege of perusing every original file of the case, down to the smallest and sharpest detail I’ve recorded. They are at your disposal in the same shape as I myself pored over them. I have provided you with every accompanying report from every department you can—”

“You’ve only let me look at the robbery photos _once_! And for no longer than ten, fifteen minutes?” She almost wants to laugh, realizing this. “Somehow I don’t exactly buy into the idea that you’ve only allowed yourself fifteen minutes to look at the photos.”

Kitty raises an eyebrow, staring, unflinching, demanding an answer. Sherlock inhales sharply.

“You forget _precisely_ what this exercise is meant to teach you,” he replies. “Fifteen minutes — well, seventeen minutes and thirty-six seconds exactly — is more than enough time to scan over the descriptions and photographs of the scene, especially for a case as infuriatingly and laughably artless as this one. You will come to realize that fact.”

Kitty glares at him, knowing there was little use in trying to convince the detective to let her see the photographs once more. There was always the option of snatching them from where he set them, right there on the mantel shelf, but she hadn’t quite reached that level of annoyance or desperation in cracking the case. _Yet_.

She recounts what she can of the photographs and her introduction to the case. A theft had occurred in the offices of a company that all four CEOs were rivaled against. No fingerprints were left at the scene. The desk from which a handful of flash drives were stolen had been left in a hurry: post-it notes were scattered about on the floor, a jar of pens had toppled over, and the carpet was stained with tea. The mug was hastily thrown in a bin by the elevators. No fingerprints on the mug itself, either, apart from those belonging to the one who stationed the desk.

Kitty could make a reasonable deduction or two from the state of the desk alone.

She understood that.

What she _didn’t_ understand was how she was supposed to tell who the thief was from a series of candid photos alone. Even if she aligned her observations of the robbery scene photographs to the images on the wall, the clues that rolled her way had been scarce, especially as each of the CEOs had a history of disagreements with the owner of the flash drives, and therefore, possessed equal motive. The fact that the robbed desk itself left virtually no traces of personal signatures certainly wasn’t helping.

And the answer was blatantly obvious — or at least, it was to Sherlock.

Kitty sighs, feeling the threat of defeat begin its slow, steady climb. Sherlock could try all he could to mask his impatience as well, but they’ve been at this since waking this morning, and hardly had a bite to eat. The library’s atmosphere was starting to feel heavy. The air had become stale, stuffy, and it definitely wasn’t because they recently got the radiator repaired.

She takes a few steps back to better scan the arrangement in its entirety, but the sound of the brownstone doors being unlocked and opened — followed by the clacking of heels on the wooden floor — causes her to peel her eyes away from the display.

Joan Watson steps into the library, nodding at the duo before her.

“Watson,” Kitty greets her with a small smile.

“Hey,” Joan says.

“Watson!” Sherlock chimes in as well, louder, and from where he’s now perched on the armchair.

Joan offers a curious smile in return, slightly amused with the chipper greeting.

Well, it could’ve been worse. At least the both of them weren't suspended from their ankles.


	3. Another Agenda

 

 

 

 

They’re obviously busy with something, but she asks anyway.

“What’s up?” Joan’s gaze falls upon the line of candid photographs.

“Kitty has yet to determine our criminal,” Sherlock answers as he outstretches an arm towards Kitty, and then the photographs, although his eyes remain fixed on Joan.

Kitty scoffs. “I only got to see the crime scene photos once. Briefly.”

“Ah,” Joan looks away from the arrangement now, sporting an all-knowing expression. “ _That_ exercise.”

She and Kitty exchange a look. It does not go unnoticed by Sherlock, who steps closer to the two, his posture ramrod straight.

“What brings you to the brownstone this afternoon, Watson?” He starts, rocking on his heels. “Have you found yourself in need of assistance with your case?”

“Actually, I just wrapped things up with my last client,” Joan says softly, not wanting to crush the animated, excitable air about him. “Kitty didn’t tell you I was coming?”

“What?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“Oh, I see,” Joan says, not even bothering to mask the amusement coloring her face.

Sherlock looks to Kitty at last, befuddled by her smug grin.

“What, we aren’t allowed to text each other without you knowing, now?” Kitty asks.

“That is _not_ what I am implying; I’m merely curious as to why you would arrange for…” Sherlock’s eyebrows knit, slowly rotating his right hand in circles as his thoughts scramble to continue his sentence, as he attempts to make sense of the scenario. “… _Whatever_ it is you have arranged for, when you knew today would involve a crucial exercise for sharpening your investigative skills.”

Kitty’s smile fades. “I’ve been staring at the bloody photographs since I got up this morning, don’t you think it’s time for a break?”

“The longer you separate yourself from the matter at hand, the more difficult your task will become. You will be all the more prone to forget the details of the photographs in the minutes — which, hopefully, will fall short of becoming another hour — that follow. This is, at its core, an exercise in memory, Kitty. You cannot expect to have a multitude of platforms available to you at all times during an investigation, and so you must train yourself to withhold what you can.” As Sherlock’s voice rises, his vibrant energy diminishes by the second, giving way to mild irritation instead. He holds up a finger. “I can see now, that since Watson’s arrival mere moments ago, that you are distracted, and that your dedication to completing this exercise is rapidly deteriora—”

“She just needs a break,” Joan interrupts, stepping in between Sherlock and Kitty. She’d heard _this_ one before. “Sounds like you could use one, too.”

At this, Sherlock says nothing. Finger still held up, his hand eventually shrinks into a loose fist before he sets his arm down, a single tap of his wrist at his side substituting for where a nod might have been. Kitty’s eyes widen slightly, the corners of her mouth rising.

The brownstone is met with a few seconds of silence before Sherlock speaks again.

“Very well. A break we shall have, then. A _short_ one,” he says, with particular emphasis on the _T_.

“I won’t be around long, anyway,” Joan informs him.

“And exactly what was it you two were planning for this afternoon?”

“Oh, it shouldn’t get in the way of casework. Kitty wanted to—”

Joan stops at the sound of two ringtones. Text messages; the bell sound hers, the chime, his. Kitty’s eyes dart back and forth from the two former partners. Joan pulls her phone out of her clutch purse, and Sherlock strides towards where he’d left it on the bookshelf.

Joan’s still reading the message when she feels a small gust of air at her side as Sherlock zips past her and towards the door.

“It’s Gregson,” Joan says, more so for Kitty than for herself. “They found a body at Holton Academy Campus.”

“The private art school?” Kitty asks, fetching her leather jacket from where it’s draped on the back of a chair. Joan nods in return, inching towards the doorway, a pace or two ahead of Kitty.

Sherlock’s already slipping his arms into the sleeves of his pea coat. Both he and Kitty look especially eager to step away from the exercise and out into the fresh case at hand. Once he’s set, he holds the door open, beaming in a way almost exclusively reserved for new cases.

Joan sighs, stepping into the brownstone parlor as she digs for her car keys in her purse.

There goes their short break.


	4. Short of Space

 

 

 

 

The unforgiving cold seeps through every cloth and coat of New York City, but at least it isn’t snowing. It’s one of the smaller, better signs the morning poses — if an arbitrary factor such as the weather could be used to immediately determine whether or not taking on a case was worth the time, that is. Sherlock brings up such a topic — or rather, tries to urge a debate of sorts, judging by his sharp verbs and velocity towards a quarrelsome tone — no later than seven minutes into their drive. Joan rolls her eyes, ever familiar with the directions his car chats took, and switches on the radio. Sherlock switches it off. The cycle repeats until they’re on the expressway.

Kitty, leaning comfortably into the back seat, spares herself of the banter by blasting music through her headphones. Still, through the rearview mirror, she’s certain she saw a hint of a smile make its way onto her mentor’s face at one point.

Holton Academy stirs with a strained air on Tuesday morning. Students file out of one of the buildings; not too many walk back in, despite the weather. Police cruisers line the sidewalk by the photography wing’s entrance, and among them, a large white vehicle affiliated with the department that Joan hasn’t seen since she’d had a case involving a hazardous outbreak a while back. Definitely _not_ one of the better signs. Sherlock’s emanating with that controlled restlessness, no doubt anticipating the matters ahead, pressed all the more by the sight of the specialized vehicle.

As the three of them file into the school’s spacious hallways, the atmosphere feels almost too tranquil to be convincing. Regardless, they all knew better than to think that the peace of the interior beforehand would do much to downplay whatever horrors lay ahead.

They progress to the third floor of the wing, passing a few officers along the way. Yellow police tape — stretched across at the very front of the branch’s opening, no more than several feet from the elevators and stairwell — banned entry to the entire hall for anyone who wasn’t with the force. Two cops were stationed by either end of the barricade. Another uniform raises the tape, permitting them through, and ushers the three into one of the classrooms.

Once they’re there, all it takes is one second to realize that they’ve been summoned to see to a sort of chaos different from what Gregson’s text message suggested. Kitty slips her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, steeling herself. This was a new one for her. In other news, another exercise altogether.

One wall of a quarantine tent had been tailored and positioned to seal the darkroom doorway. A zipper that ran the length of the door sealed the blockade shut. Sheets of white and partially transparent plastic tarp covered the darkroom entrance, forming a perimeter around the door, and extended to stretch against the entire wall, sealing whatever was inside. The curtain of the darkroom door had been pulled back and secured to the side, and within the outline of the door just behind the plastic boundary, a few blurred shapes and shadows inside swelled with movement.

Jarring as the precautions were, they were merely components of the entrance. All the relevant questions would spawn from beyond the boundary, where their crime scene awaited them.

Joan wrinkles her nose and waves her hand at the acrid smell coming from the quarantined entrance. Kitty coughs, orienting her head away, but keeps her eyes on the forensic enclosure. Sherlock’s head is bent down; he burrows his nose into his collar and coat as best as he can. He curses under his breath for not bringing his scarf along.

From the classroom’s second entrance at the other end of the room steps in a fellow detective. He’s determined, ready, and while there’s tension in his frame, he’s as no-nonsense as they come.

“Hey, Marcus,” Joan calls out to him at his approach.

Detective Marcus Bell nods in greeting, immediately plucking a handful of disposable earloop face masks — as well as latex gloves — from boxes set on one of the classroom desks. He distributes the supply among them.

“That bad, huh?” Joan asks Bell.

“I wouldn’t put it on the same scale as that case from a few months back, but trust me,” Bell responds, nodding once more. “You’re definitely gonna want these.”

Joan and Kitty take a mask and a pair of gloves each, and begin to slip them on. Bell follows. Sherlock’s already got his gloves on somehow, and takes not one, not two, but _three_ of the masks, which he secures onto his person with much gusto. The sudden sense of relief on his face, while partially concealed, practically radiates off him.

Bell’s eyes widen at the comical sight of Sherlock’s heaping masks. Right. The guy was real sensitive to smell — hardly turned down the opportunity to mention that, or how acute any of his senses were. It sure helped to speed up investigations countless times in the past, though with great advantages came equally great burdens as a consequence. The high sensitivity likely deemed him unable to wholly scrutinize certain subjects or scenes if its stimuli threatened to overwhelm his composure.

And, from the looks of it, this was probably going to turn out to be one of those instances.

“You sure you can handle this, Holmes?” Bell asks. He instantly regrets it.

Sherlock folds his hands behind his back, a rising brow worrying his forehead. “I assure you, I’ve had worse.”

“You haven’t even had a look yet.”

“The personnel roaming the building and the relatively tame barrier do not point to a hazard so extreme it would require my dismissal,” he says against the mask. “Already this setup looks to be but a pleasant gathering compared to my past investigations.”

Bell and Joan share a sidelong glance. It’s the only thing that postpones the glare they’re dying to cast in Sherlock’s direction.

“How about we put a hold on the chit-chat?” Kitty suggests, growing impatient, toying with the cuff of a glove.

No one objects.

Bell taps at the tarp, and someone inside, also wearing a mask, unzips the entrance. An angry, pungent stench — yet also sharp, and sweltering somehow — leaves the darkroom in waves. With Bell right at their heels, Sherlock, Joan, and Kitty slowly step in, passing the pleated curtain, and turn left to face Captain Gregson and the darkroom interior.

The darkroom is small — it couldn’t be anything larger than a hundred square feet. The four of them, along with Gregson and two other colleagues, huddle somewhat in order to accommodate a small amount of walking space within the darkroom. A narrow aisle in the center of the darkroom separates wet materials from dry materials, as well as their respective workstations.

Gregson clears his throat behind his mask, ready to recite information about the victim’s identity, but Sherlock holds up a hand, tilting his head toward the arresting sight of the body in the room.

The corpse in question lay face-down on the long sink and atop four chemical trays, situated on the side of the darkroom containing the wet supplies. A rotting, dizzying smell stems from the figure, worsened by the photographic chemicals it was placed into. The trays, while relatively shallow, were filled to their brim, just enough to not disturb the sink floor.

The head was partially submerged in the color developer tray, the torso stilled in the stop bath, the knees within the fixer formula, and the victim’s feet dipped into the small water caddy. The arms hung at their sides; their fingers barely touching the further rim of the fixer tray. The victim’s clothes and body were riddled with damp, and the blood at their torso had clouded the chemical concoction beneath it, the bottom of the stop bath tray obscured by dark red liquid. An empty jug of color developer stands on a small shelf overlooking the sink, and close to the victim’s head.

The investigators step closer towards the body, each individual being careful to occupy as little space as possible — Joan and Bell move in front, with Sherlock, Gregson, and the two uniforms looming behind them. Kitty leans against the closest wall, away from the tight huddle, but still within range to gaze at the corpse.

The movement of the investigators, the precision with which the trays were filled, and the terribly serene, undisturbed chemical pools within them only emphasize the striking stillness of the corpse. It’s quiet, and the presentation was neat, almost _too_ neat. Too neat for a place as flexible and vibrant as an art school. Too neat, and too specifically arranged for just _anybody_ to commit in a cramped darkroom.

Meanwhile, just outside, New York continues its shuffle of strangers and stoplights, completely unaware of the murderer walking within its concrete maze.


	5. A Curious Development

 

 

 

 

Gregson is the first to take a step back. At his movement, the rest of the party partially turn away from the corpse to shift their focus to the captain. He adjusts his earloop mask and, judging from the way his knitted brows create creases on his forehead, he’s wearing a look of disgust behind it. Even a man like Captain Gregson, whose career continuously brought him headfirst into matters both disturbing and dangerous, could not dismiss — or deny — discomfort when death danced about the room with him.

“The coroner placed the time of death as several days ago,” Gregson starts. “We’re talking three days at _least_.”

It’s certainly not a conventional greeting, even within the context of the crime scene, but they’ve heard worse. They’ve _all_ heard worse.

“ _This_ is the darkroom?” Joan asks, looking around. “A bit cramped for an art school, don’t you think?”

“There are a few in this wing, but the main one’s just down the hall.” Bell pulls out his notebook, more out of habit than necessity. “Equipment in there was a real mess, compared to this one. Looks like the only thing out of place in the spare darkroom is this poor guy.”

Kitty coughs from behind her mask, turning back towards the body, and addresses the captain from the corner of her eye. “His name?”

“Victim is one Dane Triggs,” Gregson responds. “Twenty-six years old, according to the ID in his backpack retrieved from the classroom earlier.

Gregson clears his throat, and reiterates the basics of Dane’s profile — or what they could find of it since their arrival — routinely, smoothly, and with no trace of hesitation. It’s as if he’d read them to himself multiple times this morning, not out of fear of forgetting, but to truly let its horrors sink in. “But get this. He’s not even a student at this school. Or no longer _is_.”

“We are dealing with previous alumnus of Holton Academy?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah. Graduated in 2012.” Gregson says, pausing to wrinkle his nose. “We found some keys in his back pocket. There’s only one way in and out of this classroom, and it’s with one of the keys specifically issued for this building. We put it over there.”

The keys in question were placed on the drying racks just feet away from the corpse. Sherlock immediately looks to it, primarily to avoid the urge to tell the captain that, actually, there was a minimum of _four_ undetectable and relatively simple ways to break into the classroom. _Obviously_. He narrows his eyes at Kitty, trying to convey the matter to her, trying to see if she’d picked up on all the possible entrance and exit routes as well. Kitty only raises an eyebrow in return.

Sighing, he makes a mental note to review that unit in her training in the near future. Twice.

Failing that exchange, Sherlock returns his attention to the key, squinting at its shape. It’s smaller compared to the other keys in the ring, and possesses an engraved monogram of the alma mater’s initials. Gregson comes forward to stand beside him, clearing his throat once more.

“We’ll be running tests on the key once we get back. There’s no signs of breaking into the classroom. It was the current photography professor who made the call,” Gregson says. “Said no one had come by here since Friday evening when class ended. There was a grading period during the three-day weekend, so this guy’s been in here since. The time lines up with our forensics report. For all we know, our killer could be a student in this school. Could even still be in this building as we speak.”

It was a clear invitation to discuss, if not disperse. The investigators split up — to the degree they can in the small room, at least — and review the conditions at their disposal. Kitty moves about the darkroom, looking for any other signs of entrance or struggle that the Captain might have missed, while Bell jots down additional observations in his small notebook. Joan, plainly bothered by something about the body, steps up to the corpse and trays again. Sherlock follows, standing behind her, a gloved hand raised over his mask to combat the corpse’s stench, and the additional fumes from the developer fluids.

Joan crosses her arms and leans in even closer, her head just above the victim’s shoulders. Sherlock juts his neck out to get a better look, his hands folded behind his back.

“You’re agitated by something,” Sherlock braves the smell, watching his former partner peruse the former art student.

“At first I figured this was a case of strangulation,” Joan mumbles. With the commotion and conversation among the other investigators in the room, and the shuffle of protective plastic and tarp around them, only Sherlock can hear her.

“But?”

“ _But_ that wouldn’t explain the blood. And there aren’t any bruises that would suggest he was strangled,” Joan raises her voice, and gestures to the victim’s neck — sallow, somewhat sunken, and while slightly discolored due to the various chemicals at play, free of any marks signifying that circulation was cut off. “The skin looks the same there as it does pretty much everywhere else. And even with the more…disturbed flesh peeking out from his midriff, I can’t pick out any bullet holes, either.”  

She closes in on the corpse even more, only a few inches from Dane’s bloodied shirt. This time, Sherlock steps away, giving her the necessary space to perform a more meticulous measurement. Something catches her eye upon closer inspection of the victim’s back, and for a few seconds, she looks to the stop bath tray, situated underneath his torso.

“That’s what I thought,” she says, glancing down at the rim of the tray. “It might be hard to tell since it’s been days, and because of all the chemicals interfering with a clean read…but given the amount of bleeding, and with no exit wound or cavities — the fabric of his shirt lies evenly across his back — I’m going to assume he was stabbed.”

“A most sound deduction,” Sherlock comments.

“See how the liquid level in this tray underneath his torso is just slightly higher than the rest? It looked perfectly aligned at first, and they’re all filled to their capacity but you can just make out a slight overflow with this one, meaning…”

“Meaning,” Sherlock repeats, his fingers twitching in excitement.

“Meaning the blood came from there, and _only_ there.”

Joan steps backward now, permitting Sherlock to walk into the spot where she’d been standing. He obliges. Lips pressed into a tight scowl, body bent forward in a comic fashion that nearly compromises Joan’s space _despite_ the allotted gap between them, his eyes scan the first tray where the victim’s head was dunked into, before returning to the stop bath tray, the one Joan had pointed out.

He’s silent, completely silent for about thirty seconds or so, but Joan can practically hear the buzzing happening within, the progress of these internal, cerebral gymnastics confirmed by the slightest nods of his head.

And then he jumps, snapping back into a stiff, upright posture, in a manner so sudden and almost theatrical it startles Joan. Sherlock angles his head to face not Joan, but the captain, who had been speaking to one of their other associates.

“You understand that in order to properly analyze the corpse, we _will_ have to disturb the conditions he’s been placed in,” Sherlock says, his voice booming across the small room.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask that.” Gregson says, walking up to the pair. “We’re lucky we got an ID and a bag full of the kid’s things. We didn’t actually lay hands on him; the kid’s keys were peeking out of his pocket so it was easy enough to get those out of there — we just focused on getting the toxicity levels checked first. But we got our OK. Just be careful.”

“No need to worry, Captain!” Sherlock replies just a little too loudly. Joan winces at the volume. Her slight movement at the corner of his eye draws his attention to her once more.

“Would you like the honor of turning over the corpse?” he asks her with earnest gratitude.

It would be endearing, were the conditions not so disturbing.

“Uh, no thanks. All yours,” she says, eyebrows raised, smile absent.

Without a moment to waste, Sherlock takes hold of the victim’s shoulders, the cotton of the shirt bunching underneath his firm grasp. He coughs as the movement stirs the fumes in the air. The small effort disturbs the surface of the chemical pools, a small portion from each tray spilling into the long sink below. The modification is nothing compared to the tumult that follows — the developer fluids in each tray swirl and slosh as Sherlock works through the swift rotation, and calls to his colleagues once the body of Dane Triggs lays flat on his back. The alteration of the crime scene summons Bell’s attention, and he parts from a conversation with another uniform to join the investigators, and stand by Gregson.

Sherlock takes one, sweeping glance of the body, before stepping back like a museumgoer scrutinizing an exhibit from a different angle.

“You were right, Watson,” he says. “It seems Dane here has been stabbed indeed. What a coincidence —  _Kitty_! Do come and take a look at the entrance wounds here. I believe it was around two weeks ago that we reviewed both slash _and_ stab wound analysis! Perhaps you could enlighten us on the specific type of knife used to murder poor Dane, or even so far as the specific brand!”

He moves to the side, giving Kitty center stage, which she takes with a steadfast determination no one in the room was quite expecting at the moment. The unapologetic enthusiasm about the entire ordeal is jarring, especially when juxtaposed against — or rather, in response _to_  — the victim’s corpse.

Kitty’s gloved hand hovers over the bloody mess of Dane’s shirt. She looks at the Captain who, with a curt nod, permits her to move the cloth. Kitty pulls the shirt upward, her mouth twisting into a frown as she reveals the ruined flesh of the victim’s stomach.

“There’s got to be at least three puncture marks in here,” she starts. “There, there…and there.”

Joan joins in. “There are five. The other two are disguised in existing entry wounds — see how these two punctures are slightly longer than the rest of them? How the gashes don’t align with the rest?”

“ _Five_?” Gregson sighs, repulsed. “If that wasn’t enough to kill someone, the chemicals in the darkroom baths certainly helped to finish the job for—”

“The type of blade, Kitty?” Sherlock cuts in.

“Pocket knife, I’m guessing,” she replies.

“There’s no need for _guessing_ , the wound is obviously characteristic of a pocket knife. And the particular type of point?”

Bell shifts his weight from one leg to another, his impatience threatening his otherwise calm demeanor. “Holmes, can’t you save this for when we’re all out of—”

“Clip point,” Kitty interrupts. “Or…no, hang on, he’s been stabbed with a tanto point knife.”

Her answer seems to lure a response from Sherlock, and a relatively satisfied one at that.

Kitty eyes the strange patches and marks crowding the puncture marks. “Are those — are those _burns_?”

“That was my thought, too,” Joan responds. “It’s probably the open wounds’ continuous exposure to the chemicals. That vinegar-like smell in darkrooms is because of the stop bath, but even being submerged in a diluted solution for three days straight shouldn’t count for something like this. Looks like our killer did a little bit of mixing to ensure as much damage as possible was done.”  

Sherlock’s eyes dart to the empty jug of color developer positioned at the shelf by the victim’s head.

“Quite so,” he says, reaching over to carry the empty container. “In a traditional darkroom, the trays are hardly ever filled to their brim in such a fashion as these. After murdering Dane, our killer submerged his body in additional liquids and solutions and, once they positioned him atop the trays, filled them — perhaps to speed up the process in which the chemicals would harm Dane’s body. It would explain why the rest of his body was damp upon discovery.”

Having distanced himself somewhat from the corpse, Sherlock peers into the jug, before handing it to Joan for her perusal.

“So he was doused with additional chemicals,” Joan reviews, reading the labels plastered onto the empty container. “To further irritate his body chemistry, and to speed the process of how it would alter with the corpse’s decomposition.”

“I’m afraid so,” Sherlock says, his head hung low, and turned away from the shelf.

He removes one of his gloves, extracts his phone from his pocket, and does a quick Google search. The results redirect him to Dane’s Twitter profile. The cheerful, popping colors of Dane’s icon catch Joan’s eye; she sets the empty jug back on the shelf and closes in on him.

“It says he just tweeted something yesterday,” Joan observes. There’s surprise in her voice, which sets off a series of widened eyes and perplexed glances among the other detectives. “And on _Monday_.”

Sherlock enlarges the tweets in question, holding up his phone for everyone to see.

“…Even though his death was dated around Friday night, yes?” Kitty asks.

“A curious development, indeed,” Sherlock begins, closing the Twitter window before Bell and Gregson, who had been a few paces away, could finish reading them. “However — not as odd as it might appear. This is hardly a message from beyond the grave, if you would allow for such a ridiculous suggestion. If anything, it could lead us straight to the killer.”

“How do you mean?” Kitty inquires.

“Someone who knows about Dane’s death — if not the same person responsible for his death, I’d wager — is sending out these messages to assure Dane’s audience that all is well,” Sherlock explains. “They’re delaying the upcoming storm, so to speak.”

“They’re buying themselves time,” Joan says, nodding.

“Precisely.” Sherlock says before he turns to Bell and Gregson. “What of the victim’s phone?”

“We’re still working on that,” Bell sighs. “Other than the keys, the victim’s pockets were empty when we found the body. A few of his things were left in the photography classroom. We sent them over to our analysts to check for any other prints right now.”

“Do put a rush on that,” Sherlock replies, tucking his phone away. “Meanwhile, I believe the three of us will be making our way to Williamsburg promptly.”

“We will?” Joan asks.

“One of Dane’s most recent tweets was, and I quote, ‘ _Can’t wait to cook up another deal with Intermission Gallery soon, hashtag stoked_ ’,” Sherlock recites. “It is, suffice to say, an art gallery in Williamsburg quite unlike most have observed.”

“In the sense that…?”

Lightly brushing against Joan’s shoulder, Sherlock wedges himself out of the crowd. He hurriedly makes his way out of the small darkroom, eager to be free of the troubling fumes that swelled within the room. After a nod in place of farewell towards Bell and Gregson, Joan and Kitty follow, and by the time they’ve made it out of the classroom, tossing their masks and gloves into a recycling bin outside, Sherlock’s already halfway down the stairs.

“I guess we’ll find out when we get there,” Kitty shrugs, her hands burrowing into her pockets as the two of them head toward the stairwell.

 


	6. Intermission

 

 

 

 

“You weren’t kidding,” Kitty says. Given the crime scene they’d left not too long ago, she’s no longer trying to mask her surprise. Her eyes are fixed onto her phone screen as she scrolls through a slideshow containing photographs of an art gallery’s interior.

A silence fills the car as Joan turns the wheel, driving onto a quieter street off of one of the busier avenues in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The presence of cafes, convenience stores, and secondhand shops begin to thin as they creep closer to their destination, and instead give way to smaller — and undoubtedly more expensive — boutiques.

Joan raises her eyebrows at the sight of a particular boutique, recognizing the brand name from an online retailer where she’d once purchased a shift dress. Her eyes are back on the road before her in an instant, and she refrains from commentary — or showing any outward sign of her acknowledgment of the store — knowing all too well the subject of the small rant that could burst from Sherlock any second now. From the looks of him, however, especially in the way he’s fidgeting, he’s already restraining himself from jumping right into it.

It’s an odd expression to have in response to a noisy, argumentative memory — although many of her memories with Sherlock _did_ take on that character — but Joan finds herself fighting a smile when she recalls that rant. It rose during a case just months into her career as a consulting detective: someone had been kidnapping sweatshop workers from the city’s garment district, and forced them to work without payment for high-end names. In the middle of interrogating a boutique manager, Sherlock critiqued how ridiculous — and insulting, given the gentrification rate and increasing homeless population in the neighborhood — the boutique’s choice of aesthetic was, as they specialized in selling clothes that took on the appearance of a thrift store’s stock, but sold at a price high enough to singlehandedly combat the entirety of the average paycheck. And that was just in response to one of the tattered, intentionally holey shirts he had plucked from the rack. The disgust on his face scared the manager when he saw the price of the _socks_.

Joan peeks at him from the corner of her eye. He didn’t seem to have noticed her smile. He clears his throat, turning away from the street of boutiques they’re driving past. Her gaze follows his, and she blinks at one of the street signs, seeing that they’re seconds away from the gallery’s address.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock finally responds to Kitty’s remark, casting a quick glance to his protégé’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Why would I be? It’s all a matter of presenting themselves in a fashion that marks them as decidedly different from other galleries in New York. Not only that, but their tactics also allow them to send a signal to their competitors — or any other similar establishments — that they have something others don’t, and never will, seeing as any other galleries have failed to construct a similar agenda.”

He pauses, shifting in his seat.

“In other words,” Sherlock recites, pointing out the window as the car’s speed decreases. “Intermission Gallery is an art gallery that specializes in displaying works in progress, and _only_ works in progress.”

“Well, they certainly picked a suitable name, didn’t they?” Joan notes absentmindedly — it’s more of an empty comment than an expectant question, a mere means to root her back into the present case, and out of her earlier recollection. She gently presses onto the brake, easing into an empty parking spot.

Joan parks her car by the sidewalk opposite to the gallery, avoiding a patch of muddy snow that had collapsed onto the asphalt. When the three of them exit the vehicle, they look up at the art gallery’s exterior — it’s modest, and unassuming, save for its sign. The name ‘Intermission’ was styled in a fashion _so_ minimal one could mistake the letters for random lines, or deep scratches. Kitty almost laughs.

“Lovely sign. Hopefully we’ll be able to tell what _some_ of the paintings depict,” Kitty scoffs.

The three of them cross the road quickly, and step in through the front door, safe from the cold bite of the winter wind.

All it takes is a few steps inside for the investigators to realize their entrance — and even a somewhat noisy one at that, given the brief snowy gust, Sherlock’s eager stride, Joan’s boots, and the jingling zippers on Kitty’s leather jacket — was immediately outstaged by the curious interior.

Intermission Art Gallery did not hesitate to flaunt what it specialized in with every respect to its décor. The ground consisted of light, polished wooden floors that transitioned into a dark, rougher wood halfway through the space. Sections of the white painted walls had chipped and peeled, revealing bumpy brick underneath. Lightbulbs precariously dangled off thin wires — or at least, wires designed to look like they would break and snap in half any minute — and hung from the ceiling, some so low one could mistake the entire structure for an art piece. Everything about the gallery screamed ‘incomplete’, and intentionally so.

The visual is one of being elegantly disheveled – not completely unlike that of the messy yet stylish hairdo of the assistant walking up to the detectives.

“Good morning,” she greets them. “Welcome to Intermission.”

“Morning,” Joan nods with a smile.

“Is this your first time here?” she asks. She’s wearing a golden brooch sporting her name: CECILIA. “Call me Cecilia. I’d be glad to do a quick walk-through of the exhibits for you, if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Call-Me-Cecilia.” Sherlock starts. “If you’d just give us a moment?”

She’s somewhat bewildered by the greeting. “A-absolutely. Take your time. I’m here if you have any questions.”

The three of them turn away from her, and migrate to one of the far corners of the gallery, farthest from where Cecilia is now hovering over her desk. They huddle next to a display of what looks like nothing more than a miserable stack of rusty kitchen utensils, and a half-painted watering can carrying a bouquet of rotting flowers.

“Has quite a character, doesn’t it?” Sherlock says.

“You don’t say,” Joan frowns at the dying plants. It’s a statement, not a question, and definitely not an invitation for additional input, but Sherlock takes the chance anyway.

“While the nature of the work it carries is notable, Intermission is, in every esteem, uniform in the same way many art galleries seek to be uniform,” Sherlock begins. His voice is, unfortunately, loud enough for the employee to hear. “I am, of course, referring to its pursuit of being unique, which is hardly unique in the grand tradition of art galleries. Dare I say it fits the demographic of hipsters surrounding the area almost laughably well — what better crowd to appeal to than a large group of youngsters seeking to rebel against the status quo and refusing to conform to all that is mainstream when, in their act, the whole lot of them are actually doing the one thing they hate most—”

“Excuse me, Cecilia, could we speak to your manager? Or the owner of the gallery, perhaps?” Joan interrupts, moving to stand in front of Sherlock in hopes of sparing the poor assistant of his rambling.

“I’m…not sure she’s available at the moment,” Cecilia hesitates.

“Our apologies. We should have made the matter clear from the start,” Sherlock sidesteps Joan, and gratuitously raises his voice. “We’re with the NYPD! We’re investigating a murder, and your charming little gallery seems to have some kind of connection to it!”

“You’re _shouting_ ,” Joan whispers.

“This isn’t a library,” he retorts, although in a lowered volume.

Joan just wishes Sherlock hadn’t been grinning so enthusiastically, particularly at the mention of a murder. But judging from Cecilia’s nervous face, it gets the job done.

“Uhh, yeah, s-sure,” Cecilia stutters. “I’ll go get Miss Takeyama for you. She should be in her office.”

Cecilia leaves, her steps echoing down the hall branching to the back of the gallery.

With just the three of them in the main room, hungry for answers, the stillness of the space spawns an unsettling dissonance against the bizarre objects and all the loud colors surrounding them.

 


	7. The Curator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many, many thanks to [Elle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elyndis) for being a wonderful beta. And for, you know, being one of my favorite people ever, and for being a great friend, all that cutesy stuff. Can't wait to see you soon.

 

 

 

 

The three investigators hardly had five minutes to themselves. Just as they were ready to piece together a string of theories as to why Miss Takeyama might have reason to cut their meeting short — despite Intermission’s current lack of traffic — an unseen door opens.

“Well, that’ll be all, Cecilia! Thank you,” says a new voice.

A quick _‘Mm-hmm!’_ in reply. Footsteps vanishing further into the building: Cecilia, probably, off to fetch something in the back, or leaving her boss and the detectives to their privacy, thus being temporarily banished from her desk.

Another set of quieter footsteps turning on the spot. The sound of the door shutting. Someone clearing their throat.

“Hello, and good morning!”

It is this cheerful voice that meets them first, a voice whose lilt immediately conjures images and hypotheses among the detectives. Their minds scramble to predict various characteristics of the gallery owner, just moments before she would reveal herself to them.

 _Young_ , thinks Kitty. _No later than her mid-30s_. The voice reminds her of one of the recordings she’d transcribed during her transcriptionist gig. She’s positive it isn’t the same woman — the case had involved something or other about two competing law firms, the entire ordeal was rather dull, really — but it’s one of the first thoughts that come to mind.

 _She didn’t grow up here_ , concludes Joan. Having lived in New York all her life — and spending a great deal of time with people born and raised in the city — was her precursor to the excessive studying of more elusive accents during her early days of investigative training. _Bright, but relaxed. A little airy._ _California, maybe._ Joan tries to remember the specific pamphlet that covered that area of her review.

 _Quite unlike Cecilia in the sense that she does not have the history of being a chain-smoker,_ deduces Sherlock. _And, judging from the sheer energy of her greeting, and from the collaborations and arrangements such a demanding and sociable occupation would warrant, Miss Takeyama is most definitely a morning person._ Involuntarily, he thinks of those mornings when he and Joan still lived together, and the several instances he'd woken her earlier than usual to greet a potential client downstairs — how quickly she could stall sleep’s attempt to crawl back, how quickly she could accommodate her attitude to tackling a case, to help someone in need. He frowns. _Or well-practiced in feigning that demeanor, at least. A notable position like this would require a persuasive, influential temperament._

Two seconds later, the owner emerges from the rear hallway, marveling at the sight of her gallery’s guests.

“I’m Amy Takeyama. My sincere apologies for keeping you waiting! Did Cecilia give you the tour?”

“Oh, I doubt we’ll be needing one,” replies Sherlock.

She is unaffected by this.

Amy Takeyama, likely in her early 30s, stood at a frame of 5’5”, and wore a colorblocked coordination of white and powder blue, with the exception of dark grey leggings: a white long-sleeved blouse with a lace collar, a striped blue knee-length skirt, and a pair of white platform sandals. A number two pencil was tucked behind her ear, and she wore a neat bob of black hair, without a single strand out of place. Her large eyeglasses had clear frames, and behind them, a set of bright, blinking eyes that upstaged her eager smile and voice.

Whimsical, yet tidy, somehow, and welcoming. Wholly professional in the creative context of her career.

It was nearly impossible to _not_ return her enthusiasm. Amy, nearly beaming, extends a hand to each of the detectives. They exchange names. Amy regards them as she would old friends. Joan greets her with her own hello, which Kitty follows with a small smile, and an even hastier handshake. Even Sherlock concludes his greeting with one of his more sincere nods of the head.

Despite Amy’s sleek, modern outfit, there was something timeless, and old-fashioned about her — perhaps it was her hairdo reminiscent of 60s films, or the thick powder blue stripes that coated her skirt in a way that reminded one of colorful barbershop poles, of ice cream parlors, or the pastel diners of days past. The number two pencil nestled behind her ear also added an interesting touch, and there was a certain precision to her look as well. Every garment complemented every facet of her ensemble, and Amy herself sported it with an unmistakable confidence.

Intermission’s curator was, in other words, _impeccably_ neat, and appeared all the more so against the backdrop of the offbeat gallery.

“So!” she starts, softly clapping her hands together. “Dear Cecilia told me you’re with the NYPD?”

“That we are!” Sherlock says. “Miss Takeyama, are you aware that Dane Triggs was murdered last Friday night?”

It is brusque, as all bad news is. And for a response that almost matched her tone of voice, it is especially rude. Even the subject of a sudden death could not be handled gracefully. Sherlock just happened to be the least likely to adhere to social decorum at such a time, while also being most likely to cut to the chase, to deliver such news.

A look of horror sweeps across Amy’s features, twisting her once pleasant smile into a frown so formidable it looks out of place. Her orderly nature betrays her in that moment, in an instant — her efforts to recollect her composure are what gives her shock away. The expression on her face suggests that she apparently wasn’t aware of Dane’s death, not in the slightest.

“He’s—Dane’s dead?!” Amy gasps. “How did—how did this happen?!”

“We’re sorry, Miss Takeyama,” Joan says, raising a hand to console her. “We’re working the case as we speak. We know this is hard to take in, but maybe you could help us find Dane’s killer.”

“I don’t…understand…” Amy’s voice trails as she stares at the floor, unable to look any of them in the eye.

“We have reason to believe the killer might strike again,” Joan continues. “That someone else involved with your gallery could be the next target.”

“We do?” Kitty asks. They hadn’t reviewed that in the car on their way here. “Did I miss something back there?”

“Dane’s Twitter feed,” Joan says. “On our way to the car, I scrolled through his profile a bit. There was more than the one mention of this place, and a conversation going on with a few other artists associated with Intermission.”

Kitty arches a brow, and extracts her phone from her pocket to review his timeline.

“Talking to artists Donna Spalding and Ella Santamaria,” she confirms.

“Miss Takeyama,” Sherlock calls to her, beckoning her attention once more. “Could you enlighten us as to how your gallery operates? In terms of its funding, its rotation of contributors, and such.”

“Of…of course,” Amy says, weakly, still flustered by the news. “Please follow me.”

She leads them down the hall she’d entered from, and into a small sitting room populated with burgundy plush chairs and two coffee tables of light wood. There are framed macro photographs of multiple flower species hanging on the clean walls. Unlike the gallery’s main lobby, it is uniform, pristine. A jarring regularity in contrast to the gallery’s irregularity. Straight out of an IKEA catalogue.

“Please have a seat,” Amy gestures to the chairs.

Joan takes a seat and crosses her legs. Kitty sits to her right, leaning back into the velvety cushions and propping up her feet on one of the coffee tables. They all sit, save for Sherlock, whose energy is bustling to such a degree that he chooses to pace about the seating area, inspecting it first, then staring at the flower photographs. He is primarily arrested by one image flaunting a multitude of colorful petals: pink, yellow, lilac.

"The star of the show called in sick, I see. Then again, I would expect _Osmia avosetta_ to be of the sort to shy away from the camera," Sherlock comments.

“Sorry?” Amy asks, her arms folded.

Joan sighs. She knows what’s coming. A deviation, in the form of an abridged dissertation.

“These petals, here,” Sherlock says, pointing to the enlarged photograph. “Or combination of petals, rather — it is their arrangement that makes this photo unlike the rest in this room. What you see here is not a multicolored blossom at all, as it would appear at first glance, but a cocoon, a _nest_ , constructed using flower petals by _Osmia avosetta_ — a remarkable species of mason bee. Even more remarkable than their solitary lifestyle is that of the curious reproductive success by one of their kind with another species entirely.”

Joan smiles. Sherlock reciprocates, locking eyes with her for a moment.

“They are a parent,” he signals to the photo again, turning back to Amy, “to the recently spawned species _Euglassia Watsonia_. An exceptional feat, indeed. Miss Takeyama, have you an interest in beekeeping as well?”

“Oh, no,” Amy chuckles. It is clear that everything the detective had just said went completely over her head. “I apologize for the confusion, Mr. Holmes. The photographs you see here — they’re submissions from one of our contributors as well. Perhaps the missing bee is what makes it incomplete, and thus suitable to the gallery, yes?”

“Ah — I see,” Sherlock says, deflating somewhat, looking about for a placard indicating the name of the contributor. Finding none, he takes a seat to Joan’s left, and faces Amy. “Pardon the intrusion. Do go on.”

“Right,” Amy begins, brought back to current matters, and genuinely distressed by the dreadful turn her morning had taken. “I founded the gallery a few years after I graduated from art school in 2004 — it’s something I’ve been planning for years, and it helps that I knew people in the business.”

“And where did you study?” Joan asks.

“Holton Academy, it’s not too far from—”

“Holton Academy is where we found Dane’s body,” Kitty cuts in.

Amy’s face pales once more, a hand moving to her heart. “My god. My god, this is just so terrible.”

“Sorry,” Kitty mumbles. “Continue.”

“Intermission opened in late 2007. Assistants have come and gone, of course, but Cecilia’s been with me the longest — over three years, now. We’re funded mostly by private benefactors or community programs. We receive donations and promotions from neighboring businesses who are also affiliated with these creative community groups, as well as artists who’ve had their first steps of exposure here, and who have moved on to be more well-known.” Amy says, masking her heartbreak by narrating the gallery’s history. “You see, I…I wanted to create an institution that focused on the work — the _process_ of art itself, rather than the finished result. Intermission specializes in displaying pieces in progress in order to call better attention to an artist’s growth, and to display how their perspective during the process isn’t necessarily what we, as an audience, come to witness in the end.”

Joan clasps her hands in her lap, nodding slowly. Kitty tilts her head. A quiet ‘ _hmm_ ’ sounds from Sherlock. There is something poignant — even inspiring — about Amy’s approach. For a moment, silence settles into the sitting room and, for a moment, the question of why there weren’t any other galleries just like Intermission presses at the detectives.

“How do you manage to acquire so many unfinished works?” Joan’s voice quells the quiet. “Is there a specific market for this sort of thing?”

“Most of them are submitted by artists, particularly those in need of further exposure or money,” Amy responds. “You could say that Intermission is a stepping stone for those who want to make it big in the art world. Sometimes they come back, take the pieces back, and decide that they _do_ want to finish it, after all. In that case, especially if it’s a respected artist in the neighborhood, we usually hold events for that sort of thing. The only thing people love to witness more than the finished product is its…well, its transformation.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock says.

“Seeing the steps in-between reveals a lot more about somebody, and what they’re thinking, than the finished product itself does.”

Quiet, again. The line lingers, stays with the three of them for a while.

“Interesting,” Sherlock repeats. “And what was your relationship with Dane?”

The mere mention of his name is enough to put a pause to the poise Amy is working hard to maintain. She shuts her eyes, permitting no tears, and runs a hand through her hair, slightly ruffling the once-perfect bob.

“Oh, Dane. Such a wonderful boy. Dane was one of our regulars. He loved this place. He was starting to get real big in Queens, too, after working with us. The last time I saw him was…February? End of January? He just…he just wanted to say hi, and tell me about some big project he was working on.”

“Did he ever tell you what the project was?” Joan asks. “He mentioned something like that on his Twitter feed a few days ago.”

For the time being, Joan chooses not to mention the fact that somewhere, someone was still updating the dead artist’s account.

“N-no,” Amy’s voice shakes, and she assumes a perfect posture in her seat, as if to undo the small sign of weakness. “He was dabbling in a bit of photography though, I remember that. He said that he wanted to try out the entire process itself and do it all the way — take pictures, develop them himself, and use his own photos as a reference image for his wonderful paintings. Oh, his paintings. They were beautiful, even the ones he never finished. I loved them.”

Amy buries her face in her hands for a few seconds, and a few seconds only. No one comments on it. She adjusts her eyeglasses.

“He usually used other references for his paintings, photographs he’d find in magazines, if not actually going out to said place, and painting outside.  He was adventurous, yes, but…Dane was hardly a rich kid. Lived off student loans back in his school days, mostly. He was only just now getting back to his feet, so he didn’t have the liberty of always getting to go wherever he wanted, and painting outside, especially not now — not with all the snow. He’d just…emailed me a week ago? About one of his works in progress, about an exhibit he was thinking of setting up here. And now he’s…now he’s—”

Amy stops again, tenting her hands under her chin before hiding her face once more.

“It’s…it’s okay, Miss Takeyama,” Joan says. She rises from her seat, and moves to stand by the curator, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Take your time.”

If there is sobbing, it doesn’t make a single sound.

“Can you think of anyone that would have wanted to hurt Dane?” Kitty asks.

Amy sniffles, gathering herself. Her eyes are watering now, her frown fighting for center stage, her tears impatient to be set free. She manages to cast a weak — but thankful — smile at Joan.  Joan returns to her seat.

“I can’t think of anybody,” Amy replies. “Everyone really did admire his work. Though that would make him all the more prone to rivals, I suppose?”

“Do you think maybe he was so awash in success that some of the other gallery contributors felt jealous, or even _threatened_ by his success?” Joan asks. “Or maybe this could be a case of revenge? Or blackmail?”

The mention of blackmail has Sherlock gritting his teeth. He inhales sharply, and speaks before Amy can answer.

“We would like a list of all your contributors, financial records, and the contact information of your benefactors, promptly,” he requests. “As well as your digital correspondence with Dane.”

Amy opens her mouth to speak, closes it again. He taps his foot. She bites her lip.

“Certainly, I’ll — I’ll go get that for you.” Amy says, relieved at the thought of having a few minutes to herself. She excuses herself, and walks back toward her office.

Once she’s out of earshot, Joan looks over to Sherlock, glaring at him.

“You didn’t even let her answer my question,” she starts.

“It was obvious, Watson, that the woman had no idea how to answer your question,” Sherlock says, his voice sour.

His tone does not go undetected by Joan. “Something else is bothering you, huh?”

“In fact, yes,” Sherlock says. “This entire _building_ is bothering me.”

“What, you want to ask her more questions about who’s behind that bee nest photograph?” Kitty almost laughs. “Or is there something about the mismatched aesthetic that’s just not your thing?”

Her light amusement does not vanish, despite the glower she receives from Sherlock in return.

“It’s the style, or rather, the _make_ of the building that bothers me,” Sherlock points out. “Just _look_ at it. Does anything stand out to you?”

“I think that’s the entire point of it, actually,” Joan says, her patience wearing somewhat thin, keeping an eye out in the hall to see if Amy was approaching.

“This lot looks no older than about thirty years or so, yes? The businesses next door — the crafts and stationery shop, and the hat shop — both look like they’ve been remodeled recently. You can tell from the window bars in the residential apartments above them — the age of the metal framing the screens, and that of the fire escape ladders, do not match the coat of paint on the exteriors of both establishments, or their windows, _or_ the wood of their doors. If I were to inspect both shops and request their blueprints, it would not surprise me to discover that both places have undergone issues that required significant remodeling. Yes, but this one — according to both exterior and interior appearance, Intermission’s space has hardly been touched since its inception.”

Sherlock scans the room they’re waiting in: the walls, the flooring, the paint, even the vent in the furthest top corner of the room.

“Except — except for this back room. This must be a recent addition,” Sherlock outstretches his arms, one angled toward the hall and front lobby, the other adjacent to one of the photographs on the far wall. “Compare it to the arrangement of the front gallery. The bricks, the uneven wood, versus _this_ , a textbook example of minimalist interior design. Equating the works of Pollock to Mondrian would be less shocking.”

He lowers his arms, facing his protégé, whose earlier expression of mockery was lost in his lecture. “You jest, Kitty, but while its build _does_ compliment the goals of the gallery on a visual, artistic scale, Intermission’s inner structure is not something to be overlooked.”

Kitty does not surrender under this new batch of data to consider — instead, she searches for what he chose to not address explicitly. “You think there’s something dodgy about the maintenance of this gallery. You think its reluctance to follow its neighbors raises a red flag — not on an artistic scale, but on a _practical_ scale.”

“Precisely.”

“What’s that got to do with Dane, though?”

Joan, to everyone’s surprise, is the one who leaves her seat first, and with a newfound buoyancy at that. She steps towards the wall with the vent and folds her arms, surveying the room from this new angle. When she orients herself to face her company again, the steadiness of the stare she shares with Sherlock reveals, without a single word, that her thoughts — and suspicions — have begun to align to his.

“It means someone’s hiding something,” Joan declares. “Think about it. You have this unique art gallery in the hip part of town. You saw how close all those expensive boutiques were, how fast they’re spreading — the neighborhood is changing. Gentrification rates are rising. Businesses here have a target demographic, and their success has only grown over the years because of the shifting populace. The two stores neighboring Intermission — if Sherlock is right, if they _did_ go through a great deal of remodeling, it was probably in accordance with the stylistic strategy spreading across the area, to bring more of the downtown crowd _here_. Looking at this room, and the state of the front lobby — and I’m not just talking about how…weird it is, I mean the construction of it — this entire place, except for this room, is long overdue for a remodeling.”

“I…still don’t quite understand, how that’s related to the murder,” Kitty says.

“That means with each passing year and alteration in the neighborhood, and every time a new installation or attraction is set on the block, some new café, or bookstore, whatever — the value of Intermission’s lot would skyrocket in the real estate market, especially as it has managed to attract a steady crowd of people. Amy said herself that some artists who get their starting steps here make it big — that would only increase the value of this place even more. Dane being killed, especially now, when he was on the brink of fame, would elevate the worth of this place too. And…and yet…”

“And _yet_ ,” Sherlock continues, as Joan permits him to carry on with a wave of her hand, “As Miss Takeyama pointed out, most of their money comes from donations and benefactors — in sums both small and large, I’d imagine — in order to keep this place running. It poses the question as to why a place so capable of easily acquiring a high sellout must rely on something like donations.”

“Maybe that’s just how she likes to run it,” Joan chimes in again. “You heard the woman talk, how she’s all about the essence and process, rather than the product itself. Somehow, CEO levels of greedy and power-hungry don’t exactly feel right to me when thinking about whatever her policies are. But she’s clever. She’s kept this place up and running for years. There’s something she isn’t letting us know.”

“She has, on more than one occasion, displayed that she is dedicated to her art — or approach to it, which is admirable in itself,” Sherlock says. “There is just something quite vexing in the fact that she does not seem to apply the same — or even similar — principles when it comes to the make of her building, unless she seeks to preserve the building’s pending decrepitude, and observe its metamorphosis into nothing but a ramshackle edifice. Miss Takeyama is focused on Intermission’s interior ornaments — its _organs_ , so to speak. Why rely on running your gallery on other people’s donations, on propping up said organs to attract more money, if putting but a small portion of the very _skeleton_ of your building in the hands of another is enough to keep it alive? To keep it functioning?”

The sound of a door opens somewhere, and the heels of Amy’s platform sandals begin their echo down the hall.

“I suppose we’ll find out more details about the gallery’s finances soon enough,” Joan says quietly. She returns to her seat just in time for Amy’s approach.

“Sorry about the wait,” Amy apologizes. She has clearly tidied herself a bit, her hair’s back in place, and her tears are nowhere to be seen. She’s carrying a stack of folders in her arms. “Folder one, as labelled, is a list of our benefactors and donators throughout the years, since the gallery’s opening. You will find that some of them have some very famous names indeed. There’s a handful of household names in there. Folder two is a list of our recent financial records, dating back to around September 2014 or so. My recent email thread with Dane is included with the second folder.”

She sets them down on the coffee table with a small thud.

“And if we’d like to see information from before 2014?” Sherlock asks.

“I could have copies sent over to your department later…if you’d like.” Amy responds. “They’ll be in storage out back, it might take some time to sort through them. Cecilia will take care of that. I hope you don’t mind going through several boxes?”

“Not at all!” Sherlock says happily, and he’s already rifling through the folder of financial records. “Ah. This name, here.”

“Pardon?”

“Kenneth Herman. Your realtor.”

“Oh, yes. What about him?”

“His office, do you know where he might be at this hour of the day?”

Amy looks to him, puzzled.  

“Yeah, sure, I’ll write down his number right here. And you can look up his office’s address with a simple search, he’s popular here.” Amy pulls out the pencil from behind her ear and writes the number down on the corner of the sheet. “If you don’t mind me asking…why the interest in him? Do you think he had something to do with Dane’s murder?”

“Worry not, Miss Takeyama,” Sherlock says. “I simply seek to understand your gallery down to its very bones. Its structure, its supply and stream of blood cells, if you would pardon the metaphor — the artists, the contributors, et cetera.”

Answering the question without really answering the question. It’s a technique that has come to color many of their investigations.

“…Certainly,” Amy watches Sherlock gather the folders.

“We’ll be on our way now,” Joan says, peeling a card out from her bag and handing it to Amy. “Let us know if you find out anything. We’ll be sure to do the same. You’ll be hearing from us soon.”

Amy thanks them, and begins to usher them out of the back room. Cecilia is back at her station out front and, after a quick exchange with Amy, parts with them once more, and not without a chirpy goodbye, as well as a promise to send out the records as soon as possible.

When the three detectives are out in the biting cold again, Joan and Kitty squint at the neighboring hat store and stationery shop. After everything Sherlock had noted about their remodeling, Intermission’s humble exterior is all the more strange in comparison.

“Kitty!” Sherlock calls out from the opposite side of the street — the range and volume of his voice is unexpected; somehow he’s already standing next to Watson’s car. “While Watson and I interrogate the realtor in question, why don’t you speak to some of the artists available in the area, gather intel about Dane? The ones he was holding a conversation with recently?”

Kitty grimaces at the thought of having to brave several intervals of the harsh winter weather. “Fine.”

“Very well! I will review your findings back at the brownstone!”

Sherlock pulls out a wire from one of his many coat pockets, and begins to work the lock of Joan’s car door.

“Hey — HEY!” Joan yells, remaining where she stood alongside Kitty. “I’ve got my keys _right here_ , stop breaking into my car!”

“Do get a move on, will you? It isn’t getting any warmer out here, and with each moment you two spend perusing the paint of these buildings, our killer is all the more closer to walking free!”

Joan and Kitty share a look of disgust. Joan retrieves her keys from her purse, unlocking the car just half a second before Sherlock could complete the feat himself, if only to deny him whatever small satisfaction it would offer him.

Kitty shivers as a wind strikes them both.

“You are going to drop me off somewhere first, aren’t you?” She asks, crossing the street. “One of Dane’s artist friends, they…tweeted about some coffeehouse or something they frequent. I’ll look it up.”

“Yeah,” Joan replies, scowling at Sherlock the entire time she heads toward her car. “You know what? You sit in the front seat this time.”

 


End file.
